


Numbering Their Days

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Betty and Jellybean becoming friends online, Betty and Polly during Polly's pregnancy, FP and Penelope go ON A DATE (whaaaaat? I know), Family, Friendship, One Shot Collection, Polly and Jason in a doomsday cult, Veronica plans her own mother's baby shower, a conversation between Jughead and Alice at the Register, an Assassin AU featuring Mary Andrews, we've got Jughead and Archie hangin' out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: Originally posted on Fanfiction.net, to be continued here. This is a collection of Riverdale one shots inspired by prompts in NeonDomino's Bingo Challenge on FF.net. Characters, ratings, and genres differ from story to story, but will come to include a wide variety of major and minor characters and ratings up to T. E-rated additions will be published separately. Enjoy!LATEST CHAPTER INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT "BABY SHOWER."





	1. Speculate

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: (Word) Speculate

“I thought you only wrote nonfiction,” said Archie, taking a crunching bite out of the apple in his hand. “True crime kinda thing.”

Jughead rolled his eyes and looked up from his laptop. Archie had his arms draped over the chair’s back, the whole thing turned backwards at the Andrews’ kitchen table. Jughead had come over to hang out when an idea had struck him and he’d set up shop in the kitchen.

“I do. I _did_. You know my original manuscript was based on Jason’s murder and the investigation and everything.”

“So then what’s speculative fiction?” Archie reached over and pulled Jughead’s computer towards him. His eyes darted across the screen. “Jason didn’t get murdered by a swamp monster. Is none of this real?”

Jughead frowned and pulled his laptop back.

“That’s the point of speculative fiction, Arch. You’re supposed to _speculate_. We’ve been so consumed by what happened, this is like taking a break. Thinking about what _could_ have happened.”

Jughead chewed his lip and leaned his face close to the screen, riding the crest of a brainwave.

“Except, with this genre stuff, what could have happened is actually stuff that could never happen? Like the zombie apocalypse and _Total Recall_?”

“Exactly.” Jughead’s voice was low and serious, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t even really hear what Archie was saying.

“So, can I have, like, a superpower?”

Jughead’s head shot up, a wedge of black hair swinging down from his hat.

“What? No. My story’s not even about that.”

Archie sighed deeply and slid backwards off his chair, making the legs scrap the floor. He stared down at Jughead, chomping his apple, but his friend was now totally checked out, his fingers clicking frantically as he wrote another dramatic scene for the swamp monster. Archie’s shoulders slumped as he faced defeat. He walked out of the room and pounded up the stairs to the second floor. Stopping halfway up, he leaned over the banister and shouted back into the kitchen.

“You know, you’re a terrible house guest!”

Jughead raised one hand to give Archie the finger. With the other, he kept typing.


	2. Do you have something to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (Dialogue) "Do you have something to say?"

From the start, Betty had insisted on being with her at every doctor’s appointment. She’d hold Polly’s hand, tear up at a scan, and make curling, copious notes in a notebook she always seemed to have on her. Early on, Polly got sick a lot. She noticed that Betty had started leaving folded blankets along the hallway between her room and the bathroom, in case Polly felt too ill to make it all in one go and had to sit or kneel beside the wall until her head stopped spinning. Some days, Polly was just tired, worn out, and Betty was happy to get her more pillows, a pair of socks, or a cup of hot water with lemon to drink when she woke up. When Polly’s belly grew, Betty accompanied her to the nearest branch of the Riverdale library, spending afternoons at her side, sifting through books on pregnancy and motherhood and carrying them home in a bulging tote. Slowly, Polly felt secure enough to start buying the essentials, objects that would shelter and swaddle and sooth the children out of their mother’s hands. More than once, Polly had peeked into Betty’s room late at night to see her researching collapsible strollers, or investigating toys for possible connections to lead paint, or flagging pages on maintaining your support system through single motherhood―something she didn’t want to depress Polly with by mentioning directly, but wanted to ensure she had resources for.

But it wasn’t all holding Polly’s hair back while she puked, or pulling a muscle in her shoulder carrying a heavier load than normal after Polly couldn’t choose between a pair of books and just signed out both. Betty was also there when they bought the first soft, tiny outfits, when they decided on a 1950s pistachio green for the converted nursery, when they covered page after page with possible names. Polly saw in Betty’s tired but smiling face that she wasn’t trying to be Jason, but she was trying to make sure that Polly didn’t miss him because of anything that Betty could look into or build or solve. She spent her spare moments softening the edges of the world around Polly, allowing her to miss her fiancé without everything falling apart when she did. Betty was the only other person Polly had had that just _knew_ how to take care of her. Slowly, carefully, Betty had taken bricks and mortar to Polly’s life, closing up the hole there that Jason, the babies’ father, was supposed to fill.

One day, Betty wasn’t upstairs. It was the middle of the afternoon, a Sunday, and their parents had gone out. Polly stumbled out of the nursery (where her careful sister said she shouldn’t sit until the paint had fully cured, but Polly always kept the window wide open to vent the fumes), calling for Betty. Betty came running from her room, spiralled ponytail bouncing, and they met halfway down the hall.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Panic made Betty short of breath, one hand clasping Polly’s and the other on her shoulder.

Polly looked back at her, smiling widely.

“They kicked!”

“They did?” Betty’s wide eyes went to Polly’s rounded stomach.

“Well, one of them at least. Maybe both. I don’t know.” Polly laughed giddily. “Here, here, feel!”

She unlocked Betty’s hand from her own and guided it over her loose maternity top. Light blue. It had been Jason’s favourite colour on her and she liked to sneak him into the details of her pregnancy, press thoughts of him into the cracks when her life expanded without him.

There wasn’t any movement. Betty started to look disappointed, an expression Polly rarely saw her wear. This was one thing Betty couldn’t control by reading safety ratings or haggling for free shipping and delivery.

“Maybe if I sit down,” Polly suggested.

“Sure.” Making herself useful, Betty scooped up a pile of blankets lying nearby and arranged them before guiding Polly to the floor. She kneeled in front of Polly, anxiety in her posture. Polly smiled at her serenely.

“It’s alright, Betty. Just give it a minute.”

Betty nodded, laughing at herself, and sat back on her heels. Polly ran her hands over her stomach, tracing invisible lines of latitude and longitude on its globe-like surface. She stroked, she rubbed, lightly she patted, but the babies were elusive. Finally, Polly wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the babies’ precious bubble of life, and lowered her head, Betty shifting to sit beside her and running a hand over her back.

“Hi, babies,” Polly whispered. “Hi, sweethearts.”

Polly glanced up at Betty, who was smiling adoringly at her sister. She reached for her hand and laid it next to hers on the bump.

“Aunt Betty’s here with me. Do you have something to say?”

The girls’ eyes met as, together, they felt the fleeting but firm press of a tiny foot.


	3. The Register

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (Location) The Register

The glass had all been replaced, but Jughead still closed the door gingerly when he entered The Register. Alice Cooper looked up from her computer immediately, scowling. Jughead wondered if she had an expression that _wasn’t_ scowling. When she saw it was him, her face softened a little, but it looked like it took a concerted effort. For some reason, every time he encountered Betty’s mother, it felt like he was playing out the worst-case scenario. They hadn’t exactly set a high bar with that dinner though―his dad trying to egg the Coopers on while Alice was using the whole thing as a cover for Archie and Veronica to break into his dad’s trailer. Rather than building trust, they’d started out with very little and degraded it. Jughead figured they were into negatives now on the trust spectrum.

“Jughead Jones.” Alice straightened up and wheeled her chair away from her desk a little. Apparently he wasn’t worth standing to greet.

“Mrs. Cooper. Hi.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

She looked like she wanted him to say no. To tell her he was lost. To say he’d just hit his head on the sidewalk and had simply staggered into the nearest building, probably suffering from amnesia, and he’d be out of her hair in no time at all if she could please just call him an ambulance. Pinned by Alice’s impatient gaze, Jughead _really_ considered faking this.

“Actually, yes.”

Alice’s manners conquered her distain and she gestured him towards the chair across from her desk. He sat. She stared.

“I wanted to ask you about doing a co-op. You know, like an internship.”

“Yes, I know what a co-op is.”

Jughead thought she would’ve made a great general in one of the battles he’d learned about in history class. She had that whole ‘give no quarter’ thing down.

“I thought it would help my writing, plus,” said Jughead, remembering it was always best in an interview to show what _you_ could offer _them_ , “I know it’s been a really busy time for you guys.” He looked around for Betty’s father, but Hal wasn’t there.

“True. Murder, suicide, arson, false confessions,” she eyed Jughead probingly, “business has never been better.”

Well that was a sick way to think about it, Jughead thought.

“Right. So, I thought you might like some help. I can proofread, fact check, even file stuff if you―”

“You mentioned your writing.”

“Yeah, I brought some material with me if you want to look through it.” He swung his satchel up onto his lap and caught the pages between his fingers, dragging them out.

Jughead thought she might be scornful towards this as well, but Alice glanced at the papers with curiosity before settling them in a To-Do basket on her desk. She linked her fingers and looked back at him.

“You want to write for us?”

Jughead’s eyebrows raised.

“I’m not really expecting to, at least not right away. I mean, I would like to, but I think just being around other journalists and reading their work will help me improve.”

“That’s a good answer,” she said firmly, shocking Jughead. He must have looked a little taken aback, because she continued. “I’ve read your work before and I’ve seen your work ethic at the _Blue and Gold_. I’m surprised you wouldn’t want to lend those skills to the paper at your new school.”

“We don’t have one.”

“And you wouldn’t want to start one? It would take some effort,” Alice said, considering it. Jughead thought it seemed like _she_ might like to start one. “But I saw how you and Betty revitalized the _Blue and Gold_. There would be more work required to get a new school paper going, but you wouldn’t be fighting its tired reputation like you were at Riverdale High.”

Jughead smiled down at the hands he had clenched in his lap.

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure I could do it without Betty. My heart just wouldn’t be in it.”

“If you’re passionate about it, Jughead―writing, journalism―it shouldn’t matter if someone’s there to hold your hand through it.”

“No offence, Mrs. Cooper, but you run _The Register_ with your husband.”

A smile spread across her lips.

“Touché.”

Jughead fiddled with the edge of his hat at the back of his head, wondering what he should say.

“Well, Jughead, I’ll get right to it.”

He shifted in his chair, feeling the weight of this like he hadn’t felt anything since hearing his dad had confessed to Jason Blossom’s murder.

“I would have no qualms about taking you on as _The Register_ ’s co-op student,” she sighed, her brows pulling together seriously, “if not for the fact that my daughter requested the same thing just the other day. Did you know that?”

Jughead met her eye without hesitation.

“No, I didn’t.” It was hard to say whether Alice believed him.

“You’re both very driven, and certainly talented,” Alice nodded to him in recognition and Jughead managed a small, close-lipped smile, “but I worry that having you working here together would be… a distraction. For both of you.”

“I don’t think―”

“You’re already spending so much time together.” She smiled a calculated smile.

“But I wouldn’t be here for that. I want to help. To learn about the paper.”

“And yet, you specifically mentioned that without Betty, your heart wouldn’t be in your work.”

Jughead dug his fingers into his knees. Shit. _Shit_. Had she just been waiting for him to put his foot in his mouth as an excuse to reject him?

“I would still care about what I was doing. I’m not interested in half-assing anything.”

Alice raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. Jughead continued, his mouth and throat getting dry.

“I understand that this would be a different environment anyway, more professional…”

She waved a hand at him, shaking her head.

“Please, no need to diminish your work on the school paper. Everybody starts somewhere and you and Betty printed some very impressive articles in the _Blue and Gold_. It was hardly ‘The Prom in Review’ and ‘Overheard in Math Class.’ I just want to make sure you’re doing this for yourself and not for Betty. I don’t want to see either of you sidetracked by your relationship or,” she eyed him pointedly, “a potential breakup.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Ah, Mr. Jones, you know that a journalist’s job isn’t to predict the future, it’s to report the past and present.”

Jughead found he was clenching his jaw at her smug tone.

“Tell me again why you want to do a co-op here.”

“I want to write. I want to get better,” he answered, rapid fire.

Alice nodded along.

“And if I told you there was only one placement available?” She sat very still, looking hard at him.

He jerked his head back. Was she screwing with him? He could feel his conscience bashing its head against the inside of his skull. There was no good answer to this question. How could he throw Betty aside to grab for this opportunity, especially in front of her _mother_? On the other hand, how could he not rise to her bait and show how much he wanted it for himself? Jughead sighed, refastening the clasp on his bag.

“Then… I’d say it should go to Betty.” Jughead resisted looking down, keeping his eyes on Alice’s face. “She’s your daughter and she’s hungry for it. I’m not going to be the one that takes something away from her that she really wants.” He knew his words were tactless, but Alice’s games were pissing him off.

She looked down, raising her locked fingers to support her chin as she again scanned over the top page of the documents he’d brought. Her eyes flicked back up to his, sharp like the glass she’d scattered all over this floor.

“It _should_ go to Betty. She’s hungry, as you say, and she has the energy to keep the _Blue and Gold_ running but still show up here a couple times a week to help with organizational tasks.”

Jughead smiled, tempering the ache of defeat with the knowledge of Betty’s imminent happiness.

“She does a hell of a murder board.”

Alice smiled back at him.

“She does indeed.”

Jughead nodded as a sort of awkward conclusion to this pseudo-interview and rose, ready to depart and lick his wounds. As soon as her mother let her know she’d been awarded the co-op, Betty would be calling him and he’d have to sound nothing but thrilled on the phone. Which he was. It was just that it sucked too. Jughead wanted a situation where the success of one of them wasn’t the result of the other one’s failure.

“Jughead.” Alice was still looking at him. “I’m not picking you for the position because I want you to come on board as a writer.”

His first instinct was to frown.

“I don’t understand. I thought you didn’t want to offer two co-ops.”

“I’m not offering you a co-op. I’m offering you a part-time position that you can work around your other obligations. I want to pay you for your work, Jughead,” she added as her meaning finally sank in with him.

“But Betty…”

“Betty isn’t ready for that responsibility yet. She has the _Blue and Gold_ , and spending time with Polly, and the River Vixens, which she has become stubbornly attached to.” Alice shook her head, darting her gaze up to the ceiling in annoyance. “I’m not taking anything from her to give this to you. As much as former prejudice towards your family makes it hard for me to say it, you deserve this, Jughead.”

He stared at her in silence. The only part of her speech Jughead really trusted was when she said she was prejudiced against himself and his dad. He certainly didn’t need any further assurance on that point. Alice looked up at him, losing patience. Evidently, she thought his speechlessness meant he still needed convincing.

“I like your work. I’m going to read what you’ve brought me as well,” she laid her palm on the papers, “but I do think you would be an asset to our newspaper.” Alice pushed back her chair and stood, walking around to Jughead’s side of the desk. She stiffly extended her hand. “Consider this a sincere offer of employment.”

Jughead felt his mouth curl up on one side. He took her cool hand in his. The handshake was staggeringly business-like. Alice dropped her hand and nodded, but Jughead felt one small hesitation.

“I want to talk it over with Betty before I say yes.”

“Will her approval change your answer? I ask because I’m fairly sure she’s not going to tell you not to accept.”

“No, I just want her to know that her opinion is important to me.”

“Well.” Alice clasped her hands and stepped back behind her desk. “I’m sure you’ll be calling her the second you’re out the door, but to be official, I’ll expect your call before 5pm tomorrow.”

Jughead grinned and headed for the door.

“Jughead.”

Mrs. Cooper barely had to raise her voice, the tone of it was so commanding. He turned and looked back at her, reaching across his body in a protective motion to hold his satchel against his hip.

“The next time we see each other will be in an editorial meeting. Bring ideas.”

Jughead nodded and hefted his bag a little further onto his shoulder. Ideas. He had plenty of those.


	4. Online Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (AU) Online Friends
> 
> Tricky formatting on this one. We're going to have Jellybean (JB) in regular text and Betty italicized.

_You are now connected to JB Jones on Facebook._

_JB Jones is typing…_

  * I wasn’t going to add you, but then I saw Jughead in your profile pic
  * He looks happy
  * _He didn’t know I was taking it_
  * It all makes sense now
  * _I don’t know what he’d do if he had an account_
  * Probably make the DP a picture of his stupid hat
  * Does he still wear it all the time?
  * _Oh man, don’t tell me he’s been wearing the same hat for that long_
  * Nah, different one from your picture
  * _Where’d the old one go?_
  * He gave it to me when me and mom moved out
  * _Ah_
  * _You guys talk though, right?_
  * Amazingly, yes, we’ve found ways to communicate that don’t involve Facebook
  * _You sound like him_
  * And you sound really gushy and sentimental. Can’t believe Jug’s into that
  * …Betty?
  * _Ouch_
  * I’m just kidding
  * Is this going to get heavy now?
  * _Well, your Jughead is a pretty heavy guy_
  * Still mad at dad for almost going to prison for murder?
  * _How much do you know about that?!_
  * Haha more than I’m supposed to
  * Mom told dad not to tell me and he must have told Jughead because then Jug told me anyway and said don’t tell mom you know
  * _Yeah, he likes to make his own decisions_
  * I know
  * Does he still wear all black?
  * _There’s a little colour in there every once in a while_
  * Is he still mopey?
  * _Only when he thinks it’ll get him something haha_
  * Like sex?
  * _Jellybean!_
  * Sorry :) Don’t tell Jug I said that
  * _As if there would be any tactful way to bring that up_
  * I’m gonna take that as a no
  * Cool, thanks Betty
  * _Honestly… I thought you’d be, idk, testing me a little more_
  * Ok, ok
  * What’s 1285743 x 382?
  * _I think you know what I mean, Jellybean_
  * Blech! Please, it’s JB now. Rhymes are just another reason to abbreviate it
  * _Fair enough_
  * _So…? Any serious response?_
  * You seem like a good one, Betty
  * _Are you reaching this conclusion based on this conversation? Or has Jughead talked to you about me?_
  * Chill
  * Of course he talks to me about you. Duh, I’m his sister
  * He said you have a sister too. Don’t you talk to her about everything?
  * _More now than before. I don’t want to get into that stuff though_
  * Whatever. Be sneaky with me if you want, just don’t be sneaky with Jughead
  * _I’m not being sneaky with either of you!_
  * Hmm…
  * _JB, come on_
  * I guess you could say that was just me…
  * TESTING YOU. DUN DUN DUUUUN
  * _Is it out of your system?_
  * We shall see
  * _Will you tell me what he’s told you about me?_
  * _For… fact checking purposes?_
  * I smell a rat. But yeah, ok
  * He said that the year you’ve had together has been the best of times
  * And it’s been the worst of times
  * _I don’t know whether to be annoyed that you’re still messing with me or impressed that you’ve read Dickens_
  * Always be impressed
  * _I like you, JB_
  * That’s great. I can’t wait for us to be sisters
  * _…_
  * Oh haha that’s not you typing, it’s you freaking out. I see
  * It’s all part of what Jughead’s been telling me
  * About how he’s so in love with you and he wants to marry you and have like a billion kids
  * _I doubt all of that. Very, very much_
  * You should
  * HAHAHA
  * _JB!_
  * My mom’s calling me. I gotta go
  * _Ok, but we’ll talk_
  * Yeah, we’ll talk
  * I like you too, Betty Cooper
  * * * *

Jughead called last night. It was hard not to tell him I talked to you
  * _You can tell him if it feels wrong to keep it a secret, JB_
  * I just don’t know how to bring it up
  * _Me neither_
  * It sucks
  * _Yeah, it does_
  * _What if you just tell me small stuff about you?_
  * _Then Jughead can tell me the bigger stuff when he’s ready to open up a little more_
  * Betty, the small stuff IS the big stuff to Jughead
  * _Hmm yeah, I guess that’s true_
  * You sound thoughtful
  * Jughead says when you’re thinking he can almost see the wheels turning in your head
  * _I don’t know if that’s a compliment_
  * It so is. He says he sees the wheels turning, but he doesn’t know where they’re going
  * He says it’s exciting
  * _Well that’s very sweet of him_
  * _Why couldn’t you tell me before that he said sweet stuff like that?_
  * Because I had a bad feeling you’d get mushy about it
  * Like you are now
  * _I bet you Jughead likes that about me too though_
  * _Right?_
  * _Right?_
  * _JB, are you going to leave me hanging?_
  * I don’t know if I should be inflating your ego
  * Jughead already thinks you’re too good for him
  * _Oh no, really? :(_
  * Yep and I don’t want to be responsible for making you think you’re that good
  * _It’s good that you’re ready to protect him_
  * _But I do want you to know that I don’t think I’m too good for him_
  * _I think we’re exactly the same level of… good_
  * Good
  * _Good haha_
  * You’re kind of a dork
  * I like that
  * _I’m going to escape while you’re praising me haha_
  * You goin’ on a date???
  * _That is… very possible_
  * TELL ME EVERYTHING
  * _Not a chance_
  * _Night!_
  * :P night
  * * * *

_I told Jughead_
  * YOU’RE PREGNANT?
  * _I think you’re joking and that the appropriate response is just to roll my eyes_
  * _So that’s what I’m doing_
  * Good guess
  * So what’d you actually tell him?
  * _That I’ve been talking to you_
  * ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?
  * _You’re acting like this is worse than if I’d said I was pregnant_
  * I thought I was gonna get to tell him
  * _If you had told him, it would’ve looked like I was keeping secrets from him_
  * _I’ve made a mistake like that with him before and I didn’t want to break his trust_
  * So does it look like I was keeping secrets instead?
  * _No, JB. I just said you were helping me_
  * With what?
  * _With learning more about him and how important you are to him_
  * Is that what I was doing?
  * _Yes_
  * That seems… really nice of me. Ok, good call, Betty
  * _Haha thanks_
  * What now?
  * _He thinks we should get together somewhere_
  * _Once he got used to the idea, he went straight to thinking we should have met ages ago_
  * Of course he did
  * _He wants me to meet your mom too_
  * Ooooh! Mom seal of approval!
  * _Don’t make me more nervous than I already am!_
  * She already likes you
  * You helped him with his manuscript, you got him to write for the newspaper, you threw him a birthday party
  * _He hated that_
  * He told me
  * But it’s good news on the mom front because birthdays are a big deal to her
  * And she thinks it means you really care about him
  * _I do_
  * Gross
  * I gotta go. Let me know where/when we are meeting

* * *

  * _Hey, JB_
  * Betty! Finally
  * _Haha it’s only been a couple of days_
  * I’ve been in extreme suspense
  * _I thought Jughead was going to call you with the details!_
  * Oh, he did, I just want to hear you confirm it
  * Prove to me again that you’re not just Jug’s imaginary girlfriend
  * _Date set. Tickets booked. Itinerary locked in!_
  * YAY!
  * I want to start eating the desserts we got you now just to celebrate
  * We’re gonna need a bigger cake
  * _Aren’t you a little young to watch Jaws? It’s pretty violent_
  * Relax, I never watched it
  * But I did read the book!
  * _You didn’t_
  * Peter Benchley is a master. I was right on the edge of my seat
  * _Jughead told me you’ve taken a lot of swimming lessons_
  * _Didn’t Jaws make you nervous about that?_
  * I’m not swimming in the OCEAN, Betty, just in a public pool
  * _Yeah, I get it. Just making sure you’re ok_
  * Should I tell them to hire more lifeguards?
  * Or buy some of that fancy boat radar stuff to detect sharks way down in the deep end?
  * _I GET IT_
  * Touchy, touchy
  * _Time for me to go_
  * Are you mad?
  * _No, I’m not mad. Just a busy week here_
  * _Really looking forward to meeting you_
  * Bring presents!
  * _Haha should I be prepared to bribe you for your approval?_
  * You’ve already got it
  * * * *

Betty! Me and mom are at the bus station waiting
  * I messaged Jughead too but he didn’t reply
  * Is your phone dead?
  * Are both your phones dead?
  * Were there no outlets to charge them on the bus?
  * Did you forget your charger?
  * Is it a really old, scary bus with no sockets?
  * My mom just reminded me it’s not time for your bus to arrive yet so I should calm down
  * NOT WORKING
  * Betty
  * BettyBettyBetty
  * Call me!
  * … on the line, call me, call me any anytime
  * Betty, I’ve given up on Jughead. It’s up to you now to message me as soon as you can see the bus station
  * Don’t fail me, Betty!
  * Betty?
  * Are you here yet?
  * Betty, did you get on the wrong bus? Did you―



_Betty Cooper is typing…_


	5. FP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (Character) F.P.

“Hazelnut macchiato.”

“Black.”

The waitress departed and F.P. snickered good-naturedly in Penelope’s direction. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Oh come on. Don’t tell me you’re not thinkin’ it. My coffee order should’ve been yours and yours should’ve been mine.”

“I’d rather nothing of yours be mine. Certainly nothing of mine will ever be yours.” Penelope crossed her legs primly and glanced out the window to her left. Even when she acted like a full-on bitch, F.P. found her elegant.

“Penny, this is a first date. I haven’t even started planning my prenup evasion strategy.” He grinned at her and knew she noticed out of the corner of her eye. “Why don’t you behave like you _don’t_ think I’m trying to rob you?”

She turned her head sharply and the hair she’d only recently begun to wear down swished back over her shoulder.

“Because I can’t think of another reason for…” she faltered. “And don’t call me that.”

“Are you nervous?” F.P. stretched his hand across the table towards her, palm up. She frowned at it.

“No.”

“You don’t have to be nervous. Two mature people―”

Penelope interrupted him with the world’s most demure snort.

“Ok, well, two _adults_ ,” he raised his eyebrows at her to check for approval, “going on a date is not unheard of. My divorce, all that stuff that you had to deal with,” _your house burning down and your husband hanging himself_ , he thought, “it’s all behind us now.”

She was silent, so F.P. slid his hand back and linked his fingers together before continuing.

“I figure, if our kids aren’t at each other’s throats, then why should we be? How about we let them set an example for us?”

F.P. noticed the waitress weaving back towards their table. It looked like there was a piece of biscotti balanced on the saucer of his coffee, filling him with renewed confidence in his order. He couldn’t resist bargaining with himself, deciding that if the date went well, he would give the cookie to Penelope. Surely that was the kind of grownup thinking she was here for. He looked over at her. She had her hands folded on the table and her nails were light pink.

“How about,” he started, meeting her eye, “by the time our coffees get here, we’re ready to act like two people on a date.” Penelope stared at him appraisingly, then gave a faint shrug. He cocked his head playfully and nodded to her. “Alright then.”

The drinks were set in front of them and both politely thanked the waitress. It seemed like a good restart to F.P. He watched Penelope encircle her mug with slim, fair fingers.

“Where’s the jacket?” she asked, lowering her eyes to his chest, then raising them back to his face.

“It didn’t seem appropriate. I don’t have as much to do with those boys anymore anyhow.”

“You look… better… without it.”

F.P. smiled a little.

“You look better with your hair down.” He cleared his throat, fumbling towards a compliment. “I like it.”

Penelope smiled a little too. They both took a sip of their coffee.


	6. Assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (AU) Assassin

Mary Andrews liked labels. She liked designations. The great appeal of the study of law for her had been the easy way crimes and intentions could trickle through the catalogue of Latin terms like Plinko until they fell into exactly the right slot. The specificity of itemization helped make the world a cleaner, more organized place. Every Riverdalian’s dream.

The trouble occurred when labels were misplaced, or not so much misplaced as applied to the wrong things entirely. When labels refused to stay in the lane where they belonged. This was, of course, not the fault of what Mary saw as an institution of labelling, but of human error. Humans fundamentally failed to understand that not everything could be controlled as neatly as legal Latin. Life outside the courtroom and the Department of Records did not exist to be categorized. Life did not call out to be dog-eared. It didn’t care to be pigeonholed. When she turned 40, Mary hadn’t asked to be metaphorically slapped in the face by greeting cards that ushered her ‘over the hill’ or welcomed her into the sisterhood of ‘women of a certain age.’ If only the snarky, botoxed ladies of her former social circle could see her now.

Some women _her age_ , particularly moms, fell into their little routines. The ones who thought they were lucky branched out from the yoked oxen lifestyle of living to be the Soccer Mom or the Theatre Mom or the Jenny-Has-Asthma-And-The-Doctor-Says-She’s-Too-Delicate-For-Athletics-So-We’re-Spending-The-Summer-In-Prague Mom and acquired hobbies of their own. Moms learned Mediterranean cooking every Wednesday night, or did yoga Tuesdays and Thursdays, or, on weekends when their spouses were out of town, slept with the former Olympian teaching their six-year-old how to swivel their legs underwater like an eggbeater to keep from drowning. These were things that the modern mother _had_. _Had_ , at least, was a word Mary could respect. _Had_ was possession, and possession was nine-tenths of the law.

What Mary had was killing people for money.

It wasn’t Pilates in matching sports bra and leggings so tight they grabbed her ass the way Fred hadn’t in a decade, but it let her turn her brain off in a similar way. It was a chance to live lawyer-simply, caring only about the facts, the approach, and that sweet, sweet job-specific vernacular. With assassinations, it was very clear. She waited for the Signal. She eliminated the Target. It was the kind of straightforward work that made it easy to track your personal achievements. There was no cubicle or threat of a co-worker stealing your lunch from the communal fridge. There was even the exotic bonus of travel, domestic and international. If you were good, or _very_ good, like Mary was, your absence from the Regular Life you cultivated like an elaborate garden in front of a depthless façade lasted no more than a day. If you wanted, you could make it home for dinner.

Despite her talent, Mary hadn’t seen her family in years.

She always shot her targets twice in the chest―it was her signature, though she’d been told not to develop one―once for each of her boys back home. As the years went by, Mary stopped trying to call their faces to mind. She didn’t consider what Fred might be telling Archie about where she was or why she never phoned on his birthday. When she muttered “Fred. Archie” every time she dropped an interfering diplomat just outside of an embassy, or splattered a corrupt head of state’s blood across a flag as they smiled and shook hands for a photo, Mary let the pair of names be nothing but words. A small piece of her ritual. She couldn’t confront the way those names wounded her, so she sent them whizzing away with each kill shot to break somebody else’s heart instead.

Autumn had come to Rome and the colours worn by the ancient city’s fashionable citizens were as rich as their former emperors. Mary had been sent in in advance of a political summit. While the shade of her hair was in vogue, the fact of her wearing the colour on her head made her a little more conspicuous than at her last placement in Dublin. She always preferred to play it native when she had to interact with the populous, but unless she wanted to swap her natural hair for a wig, she’d be acting the tourist this time. Mary forcefully dulled the Italian on her tongue, polluting it with the ghost of a high school French accent that all children who’d been taught French young and mandatorily were hampered by when speaking other languages. She spoke this muddy, striving tongue of the European vacationer as fluently as if it were the oldest, most well-documented language on earth.

In short, Mary was bored. The funny thing about assassinations was that they became neither more straightforward nor more difficult the more she did. Were they even making a difference in the world as a whole? She spent so much time walking down narrow cobblestone streets and staring through a scope at blindingly reflective glass that she’d lost touch with it all, with everything _beyond_. She missed being able to feel the world around her, to see an expression on a person’s face she passed on the sidewalk and know what it meant simply because, somewhere inside them both, humanity created an overlap. In Mary’s line of work, PTSD was a much more common side effect than disillusionment, but it wasn’t the horror of death that kept her up at night. It was the numbness.

She completed her task and moved on to Paris, trading Caesar for Cezanne, steaming pasta and hot tempers for chilled wine and frosty glances. “ _N’est-ce pas?_ ” always found her in conversations and Mary was happy to nod and fade into the background with someone else’s words stuffed in her mouth. She didn’t stay long and it rained often. She wanted to stand on a balcony, lip-syncing Edith Piaf, and let the drizzle slide the blood from her hands. Of course, it would only have been possible if she’d been the sort of unfastidious slob who didn’t wear gloves when she neutralized her targets. Or killed from less than several hundred feet away; anything closer was distasteful and better left to amateurs and people who did the work for selfish, sadistic reasons. But still. Purification by rainwater was a beautiful, impossible shortcut―even for a hired gun.

Boston revitalized Mary when she found herself there, on assignment, in December. It wasn’t her town, but it was the continental US. It didn’t feel like Christmas, but she watched the lights turn on all the same. Her pulse seemed to slow surrounded by opera, ballet, and an historic fishing industry. There was a subtle pull away from the ordered, intentional choices that defined her working motions. After the reason for her visit was bleeding out on a bland auditorium carpet, Mary strolled the winding roads of Cambridge. She touched the revered bricks of Harvard. She steamed her visible breath on John Harvard’s shoe, but didn’t lay her hand on it, even with a thick glove to act as a buffer. On New Year’s Eve, the fireworks looked like memories and sounded like gun shots. Mary fled.

She went far―Pretoria, Auckland, Lima, Zagreb―taking on projects that felt less like a trail leading her back to Riverdale. Yet, Mary stalled again in Oslo, passing late summer as an ethnic Norwegian. August rose and fell on the coasts. It stole away from her where she sat quietly on the grass in parks. She would visit museums and brace herself for the unoppressed laughter of schoolchildren. Throughout September, encoded job offers filled her inbox and Mary sat, scrolling through her phone and looking the part of one of the field tripper’s absentminded mothers. She stopped sending out signals that she wanted to be contacted. She ceased waiting for signs. Gradually, Mary let herself remember that she could be a mother again, for real. She had the clearance to go anywhere, but for once, the possibilities made her feel small. Nothing held her, but she wasn’t free.

Those September days were long as Mary felt around in her life for loose ends to wind up, knot, or cauterize. She skipped over to Reykjavik, Halifax, the vital streets of Manhattan, postponing the final trip but still stalking her goal. She squeezed her hands tight in her pockets on a grey corner in downtown Detroit when fall came on fast. In Cleveland, Mary was jostled and soothed by blues, submerging herself in music until she couldn’t get Archie and the simple songs he once sang to her out of her head. Grocery stores all over Seattle were selling out of cardboard boxes filled with Halloween treats when she darted west. October was almost upon her and Mary’s teeth ached for a Mars bar. Soon, it would finally be time to come home.


	7. Drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (Genre) Drama

Betty couldn’t stand being at home anymore. Whatever she did, wherever she went, there was always that chance now that the Black Hood was watching her, but if she was out of the house, then there was less reason for him to hang around there, thinking of ways to murder her parents. She didn’t want to be followed, she hadn’t asked for it, but Betty knew she would always choose being the decoy who played the killer’s game over passive resistance that led to a loved one’s death. So, she sat on the bench at the bus stop about a mile from her house, well after midnight, and tried not to think of anyone she cared about, anyone she’d been commanded to distance herself from. The inside of her nose tingled painfully from trying not to cry. Betty was alone now. She _had_ to be. She had thought that every time she did something the Black Hood wanted that she was protecting another of her friends or family members, but tonight he’d threatened Polly again. And Betty had given up a name: Nick St. Clair. She knew now that the only possibility was to interact with no one at all. If she didn’t appear to care about anyone, the Black Hood couldn’t pick his next target from her circle.

A muffled thrum resolved into steady footsteps, approaching Betty from the opposite direction to where her house stood. The last streetlight was beside the bench where she sat and the steps advanced in darkness. Betty wanted so badly to get up and run, but she fought with herself. Fear told her to flee from the serial killer who’d been tormenting her. Logic told her to stay because she wasn’t the one he wanted to kill.

The man stepped into the reach of the dim yellow light and it wasn’t the Black Hood… it was Jughead Jones. Betty felt immediately better and worse. Everything in her wanted to get up and throw herself into his arms, especially when he was close enough that she could see he’d been hurt. Badly. Cuts and bruises all over his face. Rips in the knees of his jeans. _No_ , she told herself. Jughead was the last person she wanted the Black Hood to see her showing attachment to, if he were watching her tonight.

“Who called you?” she asked Jughead, pulling her hair roughly behind her ears to distract herself from how much she wanted to cry. Her voice didn’t sound strong, but Jughead could only be here, on the way to her house, because he already knew something was wrong.

“Archie, believe it or not,” he answered, stopping so that he stood a few feet in front of Betty. That was good. Distance was important if he was going to insist on standing here and talking to her. Selfishly, she hated how impersonal his body language was, like their relationship had never existed. “I must’ve hung up on him a dozen times,” Jughead continued, “before he managed to get his message out fast enough that I actually realized something was wrong.”

“Why didn’t you just turn your phone off?” Betty asked emotionlessly. Something in his face changed, so briefly and so minutely, but she knew her words had upset him.

“Because I was hoping someone else would call.” He gave her a pointed look and Betty couldn’t stand it, dropping her gaze to the dirty asphalt. “Archie _dared_ me to call you after delivering your message, you know that?” He sounded angry at her now. Betty sniffed, but hoped the Black Hood was hearing him. “Probably hoping I’d look that much more pathetic in front of the Serpents and they wouldn’t want me joining up. Would’ve just had to find somebody else to dog-sit.”

Slowly, Betty raised her head. So, Jughead had been with the Serpents all night. And he was all beat up. Some new friends he had.

“If you thought talking to me was going to make you look pathetic then why were you hoping I’d call?” She hoped she sounded disinterested rather than wounded.

“I didn’t want you to call _then_ ,” he explained, “I wanted you to call… later on.” His shoulders fell, hunching inwards. There was an uncomfortable pause in his speech that made Betty worry. It sounded like he’d been having a complicated night too. She wished they could’ve just stopped everything right there and gone to Pop’s for a milkshake and a talk like they’d done in the past. That past was so far away from them now, and only Betty knew how far.

“Jughead, this is exhausting.” It was a relief to say something that was actually true. “Why later on? To tell you you’d done the right thing? The wrong thing?” Betty gestured at his face and it felt like a mistake. Maybe she shouldn’t have let him know she noticed that he was injured.

“Because I screwed up!” Jughead exclaimed, then covered his face with his hand.

Betty couldn’t take it. Concern made her reach out towards him, even while her other hand gripped the cold metal of the bench to stop her from rising.

“What―Are you ok?”

“I kissed Toni,” he said with a dejected sigh, letting the hand fall from his face. For a second, Betty thought that maybe Archie had explained it all to Jughead, the whole thing from the start, and now he was playing along, saying something that he knew would kill her to hear, but only for the Black Hood’s benefit. He couldn’t mean it. He was still her boyfriend after all. The delusion was broken by Betty’s hand shaking in front of her, still reaching out for Jughead. She brought it back to her lap and glanced down, tears sliding out and edging along the sides of her nose.

“It was a night of bad decisions,” Jughead said into Betty’s silence. She nodded numbly, not looking up. “Really bad. It’s completely my fault that I didn’t snap out of whatever trance I’ve been under since I committed to joining. I really do feel like a snake.”

“Guess that makes Toni a snake charmer, huh, Jug?” Betty said flatly. She raised her eyes back to his face. His expression was pained.

“Archie caught me up. Told me about the party at the hotel. About Cheryl. I’m furious with myself that you were in danger and I had no idea.”

Jughead was whispering her cue to her, signalling the moment where it would be appropriate to forgive him, where she might have forgiven him before. Listening to the Black Hood’s instructions meant that she couldn’t absolve Jughead for kissing Toni, but now, Betty didn’t need to act in order to let Jughead know his words weren’t good enough. Her disappointment transcended whatever role she was playing.

“It was _awful_ what almost happened to Cheryl,” she said sincerely, straightening her spine, “but you’re not one to judge.”

Jughead’s eyebrows yanked together in confusion.

“Wait… what? I might’ve kissed Toni, but I didn’t force myself on her, Betty. In fact, she’s the one who―”

“You’re the same!” she insisted, tears making her voice rise and fall like a ship caught in a storm. “Archie passes on my message and you don’t even question it?”

“I did, Betty!” He held out both hands to her, arms open, begging to be believed. As if it mattered when he’d still done what he’d done. “I―”

“You didn’t call me. You didn’t try! You went to Toni. I loved you, Jug!” Betty rose off the bench, sobbing, and started backing towards home. “You _knew_ that and you treated it like nothing.” Jughead, her Jughead, stepped towards her, but she held up a hand to keep him back. When she could breathe again, Betty wiped her tears carefully away with her thumb. “So, you’re the same as Nick. One girl says no and you’re onto the next. I’ve never judged you, Jug, but that’s not who I thought you were.”

“Toni is my friend, that’s it,” he said, gesturing sharply. His eyes were shiny in the warm light. “Maybe not even that now.”

“No. She’s your true crime buddy, the girl you sit with at lunch, a fellow member of the student newspaper, the one who brings you out of yourself and into the group, the girl you kissed,” Betty listed, the corners of her mouth pulling down as she struggled to speak without sinking back into tears. “She’s all the things _I_ was.”

“No, Betty. No.”

It was as if he wasn’t speaking at all; Betty would have sworn she could barely hear him.

“And how will you treat _her_?” she asked quietly.

“God, Betty, it’s not supposed to be like this!” He hurried towards her, trying to take her face in his hands, but Betty twisted away.

“Go home, Jug,” she said, retreating from him and the circle of lamplight. “I protect myself now.”


	8. Arranged Marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (Trope) Arranged Marriage

When new people came to join them, they stayed forever. When someone left, only the children asked where they went. For Polly, who had always been there, very little of other people’s comings and goings affected her. Her days were consistent, her tasks regular. When she had nothing else to do, Polly explored the big house or amused herself outside, climbing trees and following the gradual wind of the river, knowing someone always had her in their protective sights. She also knew you could say you were _a_ Blossom or that you were _in_ Blossom and that both were right, because Blossom was both a family and the most wonderful place any of them had ever been. Of course, since most of them had been born into Blossom, they never had been anywhere else. Throughout her childhood, this didn’t strike Polly as strange. She didn’t hear the word ‘cult’ until much later.

At Blossom, everyone called each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister,’ but Jason was special because he was also her cousin. Cheryl was her cousin too, though Polly had never gotten along very well with her. While life at Blossom was supposed to be about sharing, Cheryl and her mother, Penelope, were both sneaky and seemed to think they were better than the rest of the group. The secrecy and snootiness were easy enough for a naturally mild-mannered, cooperative child like Polly to be untroubled by. What was more difficult to ignore was how possessive Cheryl was of Jason. As a child, Polly was confused and hurt when Cheryl stole Jason away. Cheryl got away with it because she was the Gardener’s daughter, and because she and Jason were twins, which everyone knew was important and meaningful. Once she started to grow up, Polly felt less forgiving of the infinite claim Cheryl had apparently placed on Jason and, though not a violent person, was beginning to seriously consider taking action against the girl, this rival for Jason’s attention and love. Fortunately, fate intervened.

This happened in a very direct and impossible-to-misinterpret way, as messages always came to the Gardener (almost never referred to by the name ‘Clifford Blossom’). On the summer solstice of Polly’s seventeenth year, the Gardener sequestered himself and consulted the Seeds, as he did every year on that day. Plucked from plants grown within Blossom by the Blossoms themselves, the Seeds housed an awareness of harvests past and future and channeled all communications, both natural and social. The Gardener’s annual interpretation, done as living plants were beginning to push their green way out of the ground, foretold births, deaths, and illnesses just as often as seasonal planting conditions. That year, the Seeds, through the Gardener, prophesied the most momentous news the Blossoms had ever received: the world was about to end.

By the age of seventeen, Polly had long since been inducted into the core knowledge of the Blossoms and had known the day may come in her lifetime when they would need to sacrifice themselves. Like plants, they would die and be born again in new bodies from the seed of what they left behind. She had grown up in the garden, surrounded by living things, and fully comprehended that this was the way things worked. For the members of Blossom who had already died, the soil had welcomed the benefit of their decomposition, but they would never have the opportunity of rebirth that awaited the crop of Blossoms alive at the end of the world. Naturally, the event required preparation on the part of each and every one of them, only Polly’s part wasn’t quite as regular as her tasks in life had been to this point; besides the apocalyptic heralding, the Gardener had received a selection of minor instructions from the Seeds. These came every year and were generally concentrated on the Gardener’s wife and children (though Polly had been taught that they were really _all_ his children), and this time, Jason’s directive was marriage. Polly had spent many teenage midnights weeding the idea of an impending Blossom Twin wedding from her thoughts and now that suffering had come to nothing. The Seeds had conspired and offered up her name to the Gardener like a ripe piece of fruit.

The end of the world was coming up on them quickly (Polly overheard the Gardener talking to one of the older men about something called ‘Independence Day,’ which she had never heard of), and so, as much as for reasons of scheduling as for correct interpretation of the Will of the Seeds, the wedding of Jason and Polly would take place on the very day―in fact, within the very _hour_ ―of the sacrifice. Suddenly, Polly, one child of many, one set of hands among dozens of pickers, one common blonde where redheads were valued highest, was important. Excluded from the toiling of her Blossom family, the only thing she needed to prepare and perfect was herself. She knew, as all the young people did, that this preparation traditionally included an element of wisdom dispensed by married women in the group about the workings of her body and how she could best strive to introduce more little Blossoms into their family as soon as possible. After all, nature was about growth, and before growth, attraction. Plants had all sorts of tricks for getting themselves noticed and pollinated and women, Polly knew, should be no different. The one thing that no one knew―not the teenage girls who giggled over procreative fact and fiction, nor the grown women who bestowed the former―was that, against regulation (though, in her mind, not against nature), Polly was already pregnant.

With the wedding so near, and, best of all, with the baby’s father the fortunately chosen groom, this little issue could have been concealed without much trouble; the switch from Jason offering the attentiveness of a childhood pal to the romantic pursuit of teenage boy had been a recent one, meaning that Polly was not yet visibly pregnant. Honest from birth, Polly didn’t want to fool anyone, but that wasn’t the biggest problem. In the million times she had considered and acknowledged her potential future sacrifice, she had never imagined the end of the world would coincide with her carrying her childhood sweetheart’s unborn baby. Although the event would kill them all, Polly felt a startling reluctance to willingly give up her life beforehand. Frankly, she felt more comfortable putting the future of herself and her baby in the hands of the apocalypse rather than those of the Gardener.

After a lifetime of calm predictability, Polly was fearful. She didn’t know what Jason would say or do if she confessed her wish to deviate from the shared Blossom destiny. The Gardener’s son and future head of Blossom, Jason was even more rooted in their practices and customs. Though the days directly following the solstice were the hottest of the year so far, Polly shivered in secluded, shaded places as her worries twisted and spread like vines, choking off her common sense. Finally, on the eve of her marriage, she found Jason alone―a rare thing, as the looming apocalypse had made Cheryl clingier than ever―and, crying, confessed herself a traitor to Blossom. She was shocked when he took her hands in his as gently as ever and thunderstruck when he proposed a plan. A younger copy of his father on the outside, it seemed that Jason was very different underneath and much more interested in living with Polly and the baby than in dying with them. There was no preparation they could make except in their minds, ending that day and beginning the next one acting as normally as possible. Polly was constantly afraid that Cheryl would figure it out just by looking at them, but Jason managed to shun his sister right up until the wedding, forcefully limiting her to observing them from afar.

The full Blossom community, white-clad and apocalypse-ready, gathered by the river for the ritual that would create the final husband and wife set before the end of the world. Polly stood up straight and kept her eyes wide and fixed on Jason’s, tucking long blonde hair behind her ears when a warm breeze swept across the water. She thanked Mother Nature that with Jason squeezing her fingers, no one would be able to see them shaking. In the one brief moment when she had to acknowledge the Gardener, Polly’s gaze ran into Cheryl’s. The redheaded girl had the only frowning face in the crowd, which was no surprise since Polly knew she was taking what Cheryl loved best in the world. What _was_ a surprise was the edgy, bitter fear in her dark eyes. Polly wondered if the girl’s faith was not as strong as she’d have liked the rest of Blossom to believe.

Standing in the sun, Polly and Jason kissed while their family applauded. When they broke apart, she put a hand to her forehead, trying to spot Cheryl with the sun in her eyes. Polly thought that maybe, despite a relationship built on tolerance rather than fondness, Cheryl could be convinced to keep quiet long enough that Polly and Jason would be able to take her with them. It was no good. Sweaty hands clasped, Polly and Jason were herded to the rowboat that would carry them to the middle of the river, handed inside, and shoved off from the bank. Once they were out on the water, Jason reaching for the oars, there was no way they could go back for his twin. Heading towards land would be no less than blasphemous. Polly gripped the lip of their little boat on either side of her as it floated smoothly over the water, turning and craning her neck. The Blossoms were bunched like grapes, but slowly spread out along the shore and finally, she could see Cheryl. Without hesitation, the line of sacrifices strode into the water, soaking pale shoes and socks, dipping hems, making skirts and pant legs wetly hug calves and thighs. So many white figures sloshed forward as Polly and Jason slid effortlessly, wordlessly across the surface. Hips were submerged. Elbows. Shoulders. Taller Blossoms guided shorter ones further out into the river. Adults took the hands of children. Polly could have sworn she had barely blinked, and yet it seemed as though some heads had already disappeared.

Trembling violently, Polly made herself turn around to face Jason, putting her back to the shore and the Blossom compound beyond. She knew she was looking at her husband with desperation, but he just shook his head, rowing harder instead of slowing down. By the Gardener’s command, they were supposed to tip the boat when they reached the middle of the river, but each of Jason’s strokes came more fiercely than the last. His eyes shifted from Polly’s face, glancing past her, and tears rained down his cheeks. She understood that he was witnessing it so that she didn’t have to, though it didn’t spare her much pain. She knew what was happening below the surface. She knew the Blossoms couldn’t swim.

Polly stared up at the sky. Would the world still end? What would she and Jason do now? Where would they go? With each drag of the oars, Polly felt increasingly ignorant of the world and her place in it. All she knew, leaning forward to carefully wipe the tears from Jason’s cheeks with delicate fingers, was that they were alive, and the far shore was getting closer.


	9. Baby Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (Event) Baby Shower

“You’re _what?_ ”

Veronica’s father gave her a look that said she was already straining his patience. He put a protective arm around her mother’s shoulders, which just made Veronica feel more confused and excluded.

“Well,” Hermione shrugged, spreading her hands, “I’m not too old, and your father and I thought―”

“Thought what?” Veronica’s voice was a helium balloon with its string snipped, rising shrilly to bob against the high ceilings of their Pembrooke apartment. “I can’t believe you two,” she scolded, trying not to catch her father’s stern gaze. “We are _just_ starting to get this family back on track and you decide a baby would _lessen_ our drama?”

“I won’t hear you speak about your future sibling that way, Veronica,” her father snapped, clenching his fist as he worked to calm his temper. Hermione put a soothing hand on his chest while Veronica reached out to grip the tall back of a dining room chair. She wasn’t afraid yet, but she needed to steady herself to keep from saying something that would send his mood into a steeper decline.

“This baby is a blessing,” Hiram began in a softer tone, though his eyes still sparked at his daughter, “and is not to be questioned and criticized as you’ve gotten into the habit of doing with my other activities. Your mother’s pregnancy will not be cheapened to some sort of…” he waved his hand sharply, as though hoping to swat the right word out of the air like a mosquito, “…scheme.”

 _But what a scheme it would be_ , she thought, doubting each word as it slipped from his tongue. Veronica kept her expression tranquil, eyes on her father, but began mentally rifling through all the possible benefits the pregnancy would have―and not things like getting the Expectant Mother parking space. Those were not the concerns of a family like hers, even if the Lodges didn’t travel everywhere in a chauffeured town car.

“Why don’t you make some of those phone calls you were mentioning over breakfast?” Hermione suggested to her husband, giving him an easy smile and patting his chest. “I’ll speak to Veronica about what we discussed.” They exchanged one of their knowing looks and Veronica’s eyes narrowed, scanning between her parents’ faces. Her mother glanced back at her. “Did you want to say something to your father before he retires to his study?” Hermione’s eyebrows rose expectantly.

“Of course.” Veronica shook her head in a performance of acknowledging her remiss manners. She strode up to her parents, Hiram removing his arm from around Hermione, and stretched up to give her father a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, daddy. I’m thrilled. _Surprised_ ―” she tacked on, her parents laughing appropriately as she’d known they would, “―but thrilled. Now that you’ve told me, I can hardly wait.”

Her parents shared an appeased smile as Hiram drew Veronica in for a hug. She made sure to squeeze him like she meant it and give him a beaming grin when he pulled away and headed for his study. Hermione waited for a brief moment as the door clicked shut, then stretched a hand out to her daughter.

“Come, m’ija. Let’s have a seat and talk.”

Veronica took her mother’s hand with a smile less convincing than her last and was guided into the sitting room. Hermione pulled her down gently beside her on the couch, shifting to angle herself towards her daughter until their knees were touching. Veronica read her expression carefully. There was some stress there―hopefully nothing to do with anything new her father was concealing―but mostly a calm kind of joy. Recalling the photos in the album her parents kept, chronicling everything from Hermione’s first pregnancy up until Veronica’s second or third birthday, Veronica observed that her mother had appeared happier, more carefree, the first time around. It gave her sufficient quiet satisfaction to let her suck in a deep breath, slap her palms down on her thighs, and plunge into whatever discussion they were about to have.

“I guess I won’t have too many months being jealous of Betty with her new little niece and nephew.” Veronica tried to find her composure and tug it up into place like a dropped marionette.

“It’s funny you should mention that,” her mother replied, laying her hand over Veronica’s, “because it relates to what I want to talk to you about. How would you feel about throwing my baby shower here, like you did with Polly’s?”

Her eyes were wide, expectant. Veronica reflected that her parents had become accustomed to her submission, or at least her pliability when they had the right leverage. And a baby was awfully good leverage, psychologically speaking.

“A lot of that was Betty…” she began.

“She’s more than welcome to help,” Hermione assured her. “You know I think well of her and personal bias aside, she did a lovely job organizing her sister’s shower, which was a situation far more scandalous than this one.”

“I don’t know, mom,” Veronica shrugged jokingly. “A happily married, financially secure couple having a baby will be big news in this town.”

“Well, maybe inviting Alice to the shower will keep her from printing any ugly speculations in the _Register_. Though we’d certainly enjoy ourselves less with her here,” she added.

Veronica scrunched her forehead and lifted a commanding index finger.

“As Betty’s closest friend, I’m going to pretend I did not just hear that.”

“Discretion is a prized family trait.” She cupped Veronica’s chin and kissed her on the cheek. Veronica rolled her eyes, but accepted her mother’s unusually fuzzy show of affection.

“I do have a couple of questions before I agree,” she said. Her mother sat back, smoothing her skirt.

“Of course.”

Veronica lowered her voice, inclining her head towards Hermione.

“Isn’t it a little soon for a party? I mean, you’re not showing―” her eyes dropped to her mother’s abdomen, “―and isn’t it, like, bad luck to tell people before everything’s definite?”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, m’ija.” Hermione took Veronica’s hand, holding it fondly between both of her own. “You were a very easy pregnancy. Minimal sickness, no excessive pain, and a short labour. My friends were incredibly jealous,” she confided with a smug smile. Veronica laughed. “Besides my medical history, I’ve seen a very good doctor who tells me everything is progressing as it should. A private physician, naturally. You know how your father insists.”

“Anything for his favourite girl,” Veronica threw in.

“I think you’ll find that’s still you.” Her mother gave her hand a squeeze.

 _Maybe not for much longer, depending on the sex of the baby_ , Veronica thought. She politely extricated her hand and rose.

“I’d better call Betty. I get the impression from your earnest smiles that you and daddy are expecting this to happen soon.”

“We don’t want to put any pressure on you, we just know you’d do such a wonderful job, Veronica.” Hermione smiled up at her.

“Let’s not speak too soon, though you’re probably right.” She smiled winningly back at her mother. “Any preferences as far as colour scheme, snacks…?” Veronica intentionally trailed off, giving Hermione space to fill in her requests.

“Please, m’ija. One of the few things I know for sure is that I raised a daughter with excellent taste. Your father and I trust you completely.”

Veronica managed not to laugh outright, though the effort was a strain. Hearing that her parents had complete trust in her was an even bigger surprise than the baby announcement. There was also no way that it was true. With every day that went by, it seemed, she discovered another thing her parents had not seen fit to trust her with. Veronica just nodded appreciatively and retreated to her room.

* * *

“You’re handling this far better than I am,” Veronica noted, pacing her bedroom with her phone to her ear.

“I’m not directly involved,” Betty pointed out. “That changes everything.”

She could picture her best friend’s wholesome shrug. Veronica groaned.

“Aaand I’m willing to throw myself into almost any project right now to distract myself from the double hit to my self-confidence that was having my mom see me pole dance and getting dumped in the same night.” Betty sighed so heavily, Veronica could’ve sworn she’d felt it ruffle her hair. How like her friend to bottle things up unhealthily yet find an otherwise selfless outlet.

“Well,” she picked up cheerily, “we’re just going to ignore those things for now. Let the only possible comparison be that this is a baby shower and Jughead too acted like a baby by wimping out of your iconic romance.”

There was a long silence during which Veronica wondered whether the better thing to do would have been to say nothing at all about the breakup. Maybe she should have focused on the Betty’s mom seeing her pole dancing thing? It was almost more relatable, but that wasn’t a story Betty needed to hear today.

“Actually,” Betty finally replied (Veronica turned her face away from her phone and exhaled in relief), “that does kinda make me feel better.”

“Great! Then maybe it will inspire you with better ideas than the ones I’ve had,” Veronica said, falsely chipper. “My first thought for the games was a round of Mad Libs where the templates were the various legal forms that have either been hidden from me or I’ve been tricked into signing, and the tentative congratulations speech I drafted sounds more like a roast.”

“It’s gonna be ok, V.”

Veronica breathed deeply, clutching the phone.

“Thank goodness for you, B. You’re the only thing in any of this that makes sense.”

“Very dramatic.”

Veronica sighed appropriately and flung herself onto her bed so there wouldn’t be a permanent track worn into her expensive wool carpet.

“Why would they do this _now?_ ” she whispered, eyeing her closed door.

“Well, your dad _did_ just get out of prison…”

“Oh my god, no. Stop right there.”

Betty laughed on the other end of the line while Veronica shot the empty air above her bed an unimpressed stare.

“What you really need to do is stop asking questions and just focus on planning this shower,” her friend instructed in a tone of authority. “It’s the best way to get through it.”

“And the pregnancy itself?”

“Take up a productive hobby with a shallow learning curve that allows the distance you’ll be inclined to put between you and your mother to seem reasonable and like a form of self-care?”

“AND ONCE THERE’S AN ACTUAL BABY?” Veronica whisper-shrieked.

“Um, one step at a time, ok?”

“Right,” Veronica said, mostly to herself. “Right, right, right. So what are your thoughts for suggested gifts? I’m thinking that, since we don’t know the sex yet, we avoid clothing and lean towards books, stuffed animals, those classical music compilations that are supposed to promote intelligence…”

“Why does _this_ scare me more than you unashamedly freaking out?”

“Because now I’m acting like you,” Veronica replied, rolling off her bed in search of a notebook to start jotting down ideas.

* * *

Veronica fiddled with her bracelet, tucked and untucked her hair from behind her ear, and started moving between the warm bodies of their small assemblage. There was no way to cut a straight line from the edge of the room to the furniture clustered in the center, but the meandering route gave her a chance to peek at all the details that added up to create this Instagram-worthy spectacle. On classic white platters were kaleidoscopic groupings of hors d’oeuvres that wouldn’t give her mother heartburn, beautiful desserts a woman so concerned about her weight wouldn’t sample too widely, and a magnificent requisite cake of which Hermione would seem odd not to finish at least a slice. Along the walls and looped through the arms of the chair that was set aside as the mother-to-be’s place of honour were frosty white balloons. Veronica had chosen white because it was both seasonal and classically stylish, but once they’d been inflated and arranged (thanks in no small part to her redheaded do-gooder boyfriend and his athletic lung capacity), she’d found they looked cold, and not just in a wintry way. To compensate―while Betty, stressed, told her to please not change anything at the last minute―Veronica had added purple balloons here and there. It was her favourite colour and why shouldn’t she put a little of her own personality into the decorations?

Squeezing her best girl’s hand on the way by brought forth the encouraging smile Veronica sorely needed. She stepped around the side of the couch to stand in the middle of the room, tapping the glass she held to sound an ethereal ring. Glancing around the room as it quieted, she watched her father step up behind her mother’s chair and grasp her shoulder proudly. Veronica swallowed and extracted a paper from the pocket of her dress. It would have been cleaner to memorize the thing, but she’d only had so much time, and it was more important not to make mistakes. She straightened her spine, smiling warmly.

“Welcome!” _I’d rather several of you had stayed home._ “Thank you so much for joining us for this very special celebration.” _I know you’re only here because you’re hoping to see some drama._ “We’ve had the pleasure of hosting a baby shower here at the Pembrooke in the past, but not with a Lodge woman as the guest of honour.” _The hastiness of this party and the fact that we didn’t rent out a glamorous restaurant to hold it in add a certain air of shamefulness, don’t you think?_ “I know my father’s grateful it isn’t me.” _This is the kindest joke about him I thought I could get away with making in public._ Laughter whisked around her like air into a meringue. There wasn’t time to see if Archie had blushed. She’d have to ask Betty later. “With a strong sense of camaraderie, I’d like to acknowledge the number of women from noble Riverdale heritage present in this room.” _I’ve watched you sneer over every detail since you came through the door, Cheryl._ Veronica raised her glass slightly. “The Lodges may still be considered new in town by some, but pride in our family is something we share with you.” _Protecting that name is something for which we’d sacrifice any of your reputations, shock even the most morally bankrupt, if only you knew…_ “You can see why we were so eager to gather all of you here to celebrate with us.” _Even I am disgusted by how much my parents spent on ‘minor’ pre-shower refurbishments to the apartment in order to fill you with envy._ “I know that it’s respect for my mother and compassion for the first uncertain months she spent here before my father could join us that brought you here today.” _Yeah, he was in prison and all of you have just, what? Forgotten about that?_ “What _you_ should know is how earnestly Hermione Lodge returns that regard.” _She’s never explicitly said otherwise._ Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “In fact, her capacity for care, loyalty, and love―” _Although it’s a word so seldom heard in this household that it emotionally crippled my first serious relationship, now on a shaky rebound._ “―is so great that there was no other option than to physically create another recipient for that affection.” _Recipient, heir, the undersigned: take your pick._ More delighted laughter. “My parents have never surprised me more―” _That I can legally reveal to you._ “―but once I’d had a second to consider their news, it made all the sense in the world.” _I’m not sure they’re even capable of get from one day to the next without something momentous to make them reach their greedy hands forward._ “I’m thrilled to be raising a glass to my mother, Hermione.” _Also deeply worried._ Champagne flutes went up like scattered dandelion seeds. “I can’t wait to see her be a new mom all over again.” _I’ll be watching._


End file.
